Page 7 of The Dangerous Dance

"A light infiltration," I say. "Test the Irish defenses, identify weaknesses, document what we find. Leave enough of a mark to communicate presence without provoking full response." I look at her. "They want to let the Irish know the Russians are watching without telling them who's watching or why."

Dara nods. "They also want it done within the first two weeks. Before you've had time to establish a pattern here."

"Of course they do." I turn back to the window. Two weeks is aggressive. They know it. That's why they gave it to me — because in the estimation of my superiors, I deliver on tight timelines precisely because I'm young and motivated and female, none of which they say out loud but all of which they mean. I'm also someone they trust not to complain, which is true, and to comply, which is becoming less true than it used to be — but which I have not yet given them reason to question.

I am my father's daughter. I understand the value of letting people believe they know you completely.

"Dara," I say.

"Mm."

"Do you think they send you to babysit me, or do they send you because you're genuinely useful."

She is quiet for a moment. It isn't an offended silence — Dara doesn't offend easily, which is another thing I like about her. It's a considering silence. "I think," she says eventually, "that those two things are not mutually exclusive. The same way tired and good-looking aren't."

I almost smile. "Fair."

"I'm useful. I'm also here partly to keep an eye on you. I don't think pretending otherwise serves either of us."

This is why Dara has been my closest friend for six years. She defaults to honesty when dishonesty would be easier and go undetected. In the world we were both raised in, that quality is rare enough to be worth protecting.

"The Irish boss," I say. "What do you know about him beyond the file."

She tilts her head. "Liam Costello."

"Yes."

"Older than the file makes him sound. Not in age, in experience. He's been through things that mark people." She pauses. "He had a — situation. A few years ago. With a woman. Apparently it went badly and he's spent the time since trying to rebuild his reputation as someone who can be dealt with. The Italians extended an alliance. That's not nothing."

"A man trying to prove he's changed."

"A man who may actually have changed," Dara says carefully. "Which is different, and worth noting."

I nod, filing that away. A man who has genuinely changed is more complicated than a man performing contrition. Harder to predict. Harder to manipulate. Harder to write off as exactly what you expected him to be.

My father would say that is the more dangerous kind.

My father would also say danger is just another word for opportunity, if you're standing in the right place when it arrives.

I finish my tea and set the cup on the windowsill. Outside, New York continues not caring that I'm here. The light is going grey and gold at the edges.

"Get some sleep," Dara says. "You look like you need it."

"I need a lot of things." I pick up my carry-on and head for the bedroom I've already decided is mine. "Sleep is probably the most practical."

I don't sleep for two hours. I lie on top of the covers in the dark and look at the ceiling and think about Irish defense routes, about warehouse locations, about the particular architecture of a light infiltration that announces itself just enough and not too much.

I think about my father, who is three years dead and still the loudest voice in the room whenever I'm alone.

Anyone can see the large things, Nadenka. The large things are for the lazy and the dead.

I am not lazy, I think. And I am not dead yet.

I close my eyes.

Tuesday, I'll dance. Tonight, I'll plan.

And before the two weeks are out, the Irish will know that someone is watching them.